


A Slowly Opening Dark Red Rose

by dancerinthedrink



Category: Salomé - Oscar Wilde
Genre: Anachronistic, Blasphemy, Dildos, F/M, Masturbation, Not Beta Read, Purple Prose, Underage Masturbation
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2019-06-25
Updated: 2019-06-25
Packaged: 2020-05-19 07:15:44
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: Underage
Chapters: 1
Words: 1,486
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/19352089
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/dancerinthedrink/pseuds/dancerinthedrink
Summary: Salome explores what it would feel like to have Iokanaan possess her body.





	A Slowly Opening Dark Red Rose

**Author's Note:**

> Title from "Minotaur Forgiving Pasiphae" by Moonface

Salomé, on feet whiter than the snows on the mountaintops of great Sinai where the Hebrew prince was unto delivered the holy stone scriptures, with steps softer than black-snouted wolves prowling through fir drooping woods in the throws of sorrowful winter, steals from her mother’s bedchamber, which she keeps separate from her uncle-husband, with a small gilt treasure chest she clutches to her breasts. 

The home is being prepared with silk carnations and torches of ripped clementine skins for the diplomats of Nazareth, with lion-shaped puppets with the fur of ginger felines around their felt throats and frost stars crafted from shaved bits of diamonds for the kings of Greece, with blue lipped trembling princesses and devil water for the empress on the Euphrates. Herodias lies supine on a woven reed stool fanned by copper slaves, fanned by peacock feathers in the copper calloused hands of catamites in chains, her tresses braided with yellow lotus calyxes and tumbling down her shoulders in rivers of ink. Already though her beauty is poverty to the wealth of pearl cheeks and cuprite lips and opaline eyes and an adularescence bursting from underneath the flesh of Salomé in the moonlight.

She is deft to avoid her mother for she will fly into a rage to desecrate her beauty further if she spies the box. Though she has not touched the contents of the chest, she is loath to grant generosity for her spawn. It is the tetrarch's fault for their splitting. Once they were close as sisters, and as a babe she would sit by her mother’s side as they wove constellations off the backs of ewes for Father’s guests. She longs now to sit with her mother as a lover yearns for a brush of lips against their own. It is promising. The weather is promising. The day will be sweet as white woodbine in the twilight. As promising as the buds of white woodbine in the hymns of the twilight.

Her creamy skin dimples with anticipation as she bolts her door, as she falls on her bed of rich velvets and silks, as she exhumes her prize from its nest of lace, more intricately woven that the bolts of bloodless mesh that comes from the satin palms of Roman weavers. A crystal phallus from the Pharoah’s incest bride. A wedding present from a kindred spirit, wrought by the glassblowers raised in the shade of the pyramids. With hands of chased chrysanthemum, she lifts the phallus from the box and cradles it like a babe at her breast. Its glass skin is cool as the starlight on a foaming winter wave, heavy as the dragonfly fed toads that lounge on the rims of hidden lagoons. It is obelisk-shaped as the sepulchers in the yonder graveyards and cut in the styling of Jewish males which she burbles with rejoicing to see as she knows it is what the prophet Iokanaan bears beneath his tattered loincloth.

Off her porcelain shoulders, she strips her puerile body of its dyed linens. With innocent eyes, she scours her pliant flesh. With the desires of a king, she runs her palms over her three mounds, the peaks of two already clotting by way of the fragrant desert breezes floating from the window, the prophet’s woeful cries float with them. 

Between her legs lie a pair of lips that remain unkissed.

 _Until_ , she thinks, _until they meet a head of such heft and deft skill_. She thinks as she lines the phallus to her cloven inlet. The Satan’s causeway. The road to misfortune and ruin, as so the rabbinical scholars crow, was carelessly left in the possession of weak women to do with as they like. God defiled Eve with childbirth and glowing courses but was it a punishment if they were granted pleasures beyond a Lothario’s fathomings? A delicious chill rambles through her nerves.

In her time Salomé has explored her body, practicing with her fingers, like slim arrow shafts of the archers of King Alexander to the club of the phallus. They have passed over her rosebud nipples, pinching and stroking, teasing in circles around the center of the target until the lightest brush sends her into wild ecstacies of unbearable and unparalleled lusts.

The prescience of the penetration has been enough to open her glands to let, like a dam of the gods, flow forth a flowery nectar to ease the way. 

Fist curled like a queen conch, she grips the phallus and guides it slowly, like a gondola into a starlit cavern, jeweled walls dripping with the mists of waterfalls, waterfalls casting the waxen feathers of preened doves in a foamy clouding cascade and ceases the movement once her hand holds only the root within her thumb and forefinger. 

She delights in it. The taking of her own virginity. Would the tetrarch call her whore if he knew her bachelorette body felt the secrets of marriage? Heave her from the palace to the shame of her mother? Or does he watch now through a chiseled hole in the wall, fondling his failure of a manhood under his emerault tunic? She plays man and woman. She is all powerful, multiple divine and earthly individual. 

Dragging the crystal from her cunny, she imagines the desert prophet’s sufferings, his midsection hollowed by a fast, his eyes forgetting what light is, skin folding by the well’s milk.

For his sake, she conjures him in her chamber. He is strong and beautiful. Solid of flesh. 

He tears her robes with hands grown supple by the grit of sand, water dripping from his Christly baptism onto her face where it hisses acidily on her painted sins. Her maidenhood was merely stretched now it splits in a flash of sorrow and for a moment she regrets but that is quickly buried under the effervescence flitting through her veins as if purple butterflies had the latch of their ebony wrought cage lifted and were given freedom for the first time, as if the black wines of Sicily fizzled instead of blood, as if drum skins of the dark continent were her own skin, beat by fierce warriors emancipated from cloth.

She impales herself on the phallus, stabs it past the barriers of decency to wring Life from her girlish fancies, rends her chastity. Her god is Pleasure now, as she sends psalms from through her throat she worships at the altar of Luxury. She is a priestess of Glory and High Holy Debauchery.

She doubles over, blowing litanies of joy from out between her rose petal lips. She takes a hand from the phallus and strokes just above it, strokes her floret, a gemstone left with a kiss from the angel of Compassion.

Iokanaan screeches from his pit and his voice melds with hers to create a full-bodied creature of love and hate. All men in a radius of one thousand miles, married and alone feel a great loss shake their souls as the virtue of the embodiment of Beauty is lost to glass and the heart of the soul of Beauty is lost to a raving Christian in a pit. Beauty loves his beauty though she can barely claw past the watery gloom to see it square. 

In a tongue not known to her ears weighed by calcite starbursts, a language chanted in caves washed clean by the winds of ancestry, a language guttural and pure and of the angels of Heaven and of the fallen angels of Judea’s red-light district, Salomé sings of Saturn’s rotations and Neptune’s endless blue, things not of her Earth nor God’s. The jet tendrils of her hairs drift as if submerged in water. Her physical form is her own and belongs to the sky and the sea and the waves of sand; it becomes a thing of air, a soap bubble with a rainbow clinging to its side like a babe to its mother, rises and traverses the tombs of the great lost kings of Egypt, their golden sarcophagi gathering gnawing bits of swirling dust, the collapsing Parthenon where virgins lay their lives in servitude for the Athenian patroness, the miles of soft grass in a place without a pronounceable human name but sounds much like Bliss. 

She wrenches the phallus from her body and it is like a cork and out spills the products of her lust on her bed. The ceiling spins. Her young body rests.

After the aftershocks of her delicious expulsions have worn off, her beadlike knuckles quivering like dewdrops on the pricks of the eucalyptus, Salomé rises from her aerie of resplendence, redressing herself in the manner besuiting a daughter of a princess. She polishes her fluids from the phallus and replaces it in its chest and in her mother’s chambers. There isn't much time. She must prepare herself for the banquet. She must look as the Magedelean did for her Messiah, a snowdrop in an endless desert.


End file.
